


All These Things That I've Done

by lapetitesinge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapetitesinge/pseuds/lapetitesinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between S3-4, when Dean is in Hell. Dean has one last message for the girl he loved more than any of the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All These Things That I've Done

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble based on the prompt "older and far away" at LJ.

Sam refuses to throw any of Dean's stuff away. To be fair, he doesn't have that much stuff to begin with--one of the side effects of a nomadic lifestyle--but he doesn't even clean out the trunk of the Impala. He leaves Dean's suitcases and spare clothes exactly where they were and (he doesn't even tell Bobby about this one) hangs Dean's brown leather jacket on the back of the door every time he stays in a motel, as if he's just going to stroll in any day with a cheeseburger in a paper bag, talking about reports he heard of a wendigo two states away. Somehow, he feels that if he makes every appearance of believing that he's coming back, it'll somehow make it true. It's almost like summoning a crossroads demon, in a sick way: as if keeping his things close would somehow pull him back.

But one night, six weeks after Dean's death, after Ruby has left the motel room for the night--she doesn't sleep, of course, and Sam doesn't like her just hanging around while he does--he goes out to the parking lot, unlocks the car and finally opens the glove compartment in the Impala. He doesn't know why, but it's something he's been putting off doing. He takes out the disorganized stack of papers within; it's mostly maps and print-outs from the internet, notes on cases and cocktail napkins with girls' phone numbers on them, but towards the bottom, he finds a plain white envelope, unsealed and unaddressed. Back in the room, he sits down at the wobbly table and turns on the lamp hanging above, which throws a yellowish circle of light onto the wood below. He holds it for a few moments in both hands, thinking, and then finally turns it over and slides out the piece of paper within. Unfolding it, he sees that it's a letter, written on stationery from a motel they'd stayed in about a month before his death. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, he begins to read:

>  _Dear Cassie,_
> 
>  _I've tried writing this about six times so far, but it always sounds dumb. I've been wanting to write to you for a while now actually but I didn't know if you wanted to hear from me. I know you said you didn't have much hope for us when I saw you 2 years ago and I don't blame you. I probably wouldn't want to be with someone like me either & I don't just mean my job. But I want you to know that I think about you a lot, and I hope you're OK and you're happy. I know I wasn't good for you when we first met, and I'm no good for you now, but I want you to know that I loved you and that I never wanted to mess up your life. And I've never said that to any girl before so I guess its a pretty big deal._
> 
>  _I don't mean this to sound like that fucking Notebook movie or whatever but I already blew it with you twice and I just thought you should know. I'm older now, it feels like a lot older, and I guess I'm looking back at the stuff in my life that I messed up. I'm going away pretty soon--it's a long story & you don't need to hear all the weird detales, but it's really far where I'm going and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to see you again. Not that I was going to come bother you anyway, or ask you to find me, since I know you don't want me to & by now your probably married to some awesome guy who has a real job and doesn't carry silver bullets around in his car, but I needed you to know that you were the one for me. Maybe I wasn't the one for you and that's OK. I don't really believe in fate or destiny or regrets too much since you can't change the past and you can't control the future, but if there was one thing I could undo it would be leaving you. I should of given up all the crazy shit I do and stayed with you, hell, if I had I probably wouldn't be in this ~~pridic~~ ~~predicam~~ situation right now. Maybe I wasn't too good for you, but you sure were good for me. You made me want to be better. Anyway this is getting kind of long, so I'll just say that I'm sorry for everything and I hope you have a great life. I miss you and I'll be thinking of you. But not in a weird Swimfan kind of way._
> 
>  _Take care of yourself,_
> 
>  _Dean_

There is a terrible burning in Sam's chest, like five shots of Jack Daniels with no chaser. Part of him wants to tear the letter into a million pieces and burn it, because it was just further proof that he was gone, a tangible piece of truth that meant his brother was dead and gone beyond where he could reach him, forever. He had known what was coming and had written this letter with the honesty of a man who has nothing to lose, and yet he hadn't sent it. Sam didn't know what was worse--the idea that his brother had died ready and accepting of his fate, or that he had died in fear, not ready to let go. Or worse still, that he was down there, not alive but still in his own head, unable to let all of it go and be at peace. Hadn't he at least earned that?

Angrily swiping the back of his hand across the tears on his face, he refolds the letter and slides it back into the envelope and seals it. Tomorrow he'll find her address online and take it to her--he won't mail it; he'll give it to her in person. Somehow he thinks it'll be a comfort to seek out one of the few other people still alive who ever loved Dean Winchester, who knew just how big of a hole he'd left behind in the world.


End file.
